


Danse Macabre

by wamblytomato



Category: Cultist Simulator (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Fingering, Lesbian Sex, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Plot? We don't need a plot over here we're not responsible adults, Shameless Self-Indulgence, Smut, of course, what were you expecting from a Tarantellist and a Dancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 17:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16999077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wamblytomato/pseuds/wamblytomato
Summary: I may be the Head, but She is my first Tarantellist; She marks me as Hers without asking for permission, knowing She doesn't need any. I may be the Head, but I am also Hers.





	Danse Macabre

**Author's Note:**

> My fingers wrote this by themselves, I swear. I'm not responsible for any of it, and if complain to someone you must, then talk to the hand.

Sometimes I feel like my skin is being stretched thin across my bones, pulled as taut as it will allow before it yields blood.

My wrists are tied above my head, tight, slick with something crimson I barely recognise. I am sitting on my bed, naked, but the heat in the room is almost unbearable. There's music coming from the gramophone — there is always music coming from the gramophone when She's here — and it knifes through my ears, pierces my brain with its delicate, deafening melody.

Dorothy is standing in the corner of the room. She has deemed me worthy of seeing, this time; I mutely thank Her by devouring Her with my eyes, inch by exquisite inch, as She slowly and carefully sheds Her clothes. I may be a Dancer, but She's the most graceful being I have ever known; Her whole life is a Dance, unending, unceasing, and I have been blessed with the sweetest of its notes.

She glides closer, hungry and demanding. My hands itch. When our skin touches, it bursts into flames; when our breaths mingle, the air sears my lips. I am unable to suppress a moan, and She echoes it.

I feel Her starting to move against me and I struggle against my binds — as usual, to no avail. The most delicious whimper escapes Her throat and I am enraptured, driven insane by the need to touch Her as She pleasures Herself against my abdomen; I helplessly stare as Her legs interlock behind my back, sending a shiver down my spine. Her rhythm is relentless, ruthless. She will not cease.

There is a moment when my binds are rendered useless by my utter and complete awe at the marvellous spectacle. I wouldn't be able to interrupt or interfere with this performance if I could. Dorothy is gifting me with the most primeval of Dances, Her hand-carved body leaning into mine as She is wracked by the shudders of need.

All I manage to do, prisoner of my impotence, is press my lips where Her left shoulder curves into Her neck and bite, almost hard enough to draw blood. She throws Her head back in a scream that is somehow in tune to the music She has chosen to play for the evening — every part of Her somehow always is.

She shakes, grasps at my sore shoulders for support, the intensity of Her orgasm rendering Her speechless for long moments. She lies Her head against my bound arm and simply breathes in my ear, short, ragged gasps, and in Her thunderous pulse I can hear the faint echo of something beautiful and terrible.

After a long while, She raises to Her feet, leaving me tied on the mattress; the room doesn't feel hot enough when Her warmth leaves me, but She is only gone for a heartbeat. The gramophone must be set once more, this time to a different tune, before She comes back to me. She kisses my neck afterwards, and I can feel Her smile against my skin.

She begins a slow and torturous descent, lingering whenever She so wishes to lavish a particular spot with attention. I may be the Head, but She is my first Tarantellist; She marks me as Hers without asking for permission, knowing She doesn't need any. I may be the Head, but I am also Hers.

When She reaches my navel, I am coiled as a spring. My abdomen is still wet with Her, and She chuckles darkly as Her tongue traces my skin; I know She can feel my muscles jumping under Her touch, and I also know She adores teasing me. Still, I can't help but give Her the satisfaction of a whimper, which soon morphs into a gasp as I feel Her teeth suddenly graze my thigh.

I am begging — silently, as always; She finds my pleas vexing, for they disturb Her carefully picked melodies — and She can read every slightest movement of my body; I am clenching around a frustrating nothingness, until finally, _finally_ , a gentle caress tears a noise from my throat that I can barely recognise. I feel Her sharp breath against my wetness and I can't help but smile, because I've found yet another sound that excites Her.

My triumph does not last long, however, because I soon lose every last shred of sanity as Her tongue is pressed flat against my burning flesh. It explores, ravenous, before settling on the place that makes me go blind and deaf; Dorothy eases two fingers inside of me, brutally picking up the pace until I'm unable to form coherent thoughts any longer. She licks and suckles, and I come undone chanting Her name.

I writhe beneath Her but She's not yet satisfied; She does slow down, but not nearly as much as She should. My languor turns frantic, my pleasure tinges with pain, but I am Hers and She shall continue until She is satisfied. Despite the strain, I feel the familiar build up in my groin; my blood is rushing and for a moment, a single, eternal moment, I can hear the Drums — and I am undone again.

Dorothy comes to a stop, finally halting Her movements; the gramophone has reached the end of its song once again. She leaves it still, our very own notes still resonating in our ears. She slides upwards and kisses me, once, twice, ten times; the marks on my neck and breasts are throbbing reminders of the owner of my heart. Sulochana does not like it when her Dancers' skin is marred in ways not agreed upon, but I am willing to deal with her demands and reprimands later. She, more than anyone, must understand how I crave flesh against my flesh.

While my lips are still otherwise occupied, I feel slender fingers skilfully undoing my restraints; the ropes fall limply to the bed, followed by my exhausted arms. My shoulders ache. I will cry beneath my mask tomorrow, but if I had to endure that pain for the rest of my life in exchange for this, I would welcome it. Dorothy's kisses move down to my strained joints, as if reading my mind. I shakily raise my hands and hold Her close.

I love you, I whisper.

I feel Her smile once more. She lifts Her head up.

I love you more, She breathes into my ear.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, whew. I admit I'm quite nervous as I am posting this, as I've never before written or published a, well, smutty self-indulging one-shot. Heck, English is not even my mother tongue. This game, though. I can't sing enough praises about it.


End file.
